I have never stepped my feet in Eden:
Grasses soft, grace in the holy groves.
We are left with memory uneven
And a desire to return what he chose
To take as keepsake; keep apace, passion oft
Rushes ahead into the rushes. Deft
Fingers travel far from home, not alone;
Hefty hollows hallow tones 
Of fingernails on stone.

Passion! Plot grace in the holy groves!
Dig not your grave in stolen prose but
Soften hearts of painful stone and take rest.
Nevermind you were never blind
To the feigned thrones in your throes abreast;
Nevermind your lowly, blood-stained bones
Wrought with a cudgel, a serpent most cunning.
Your future will be sunny and sing!
Your suture will free death of its sting!

Now, Eden, to you we cannot return.
We must learn that in going back to ferns,
We cannot do better. For we lack
Vision, we lack fortitude and fetters.
We set in and letter our sordid view,
Askew till life come new to torpid sinews.
Eden, we love you and now must depart.
Though I have never taken part in your garden,
My memory of you does not harden.
Strive someday to be made new;
Strive now for the heart of dew.
Grace in the holy groves ever blooms.